Vol 7, Num 16 :: 2008.09.12 — 2008.09.26
The phrase “community art project,” in truth, is a bit redundant. Because the creation of any art presupposes, to some degree at least, a community to receive it, to interact with it, even to help to fully elucidate its meaning, aspects of which the artist herself may not even fully grasp. I know that some people claim to create art “for the sake of art itself” or simply for the “sake of oneself,” and yet I suspect that these postures, one ideal to the point of abstraction, the other narcissistic, are really rather recent developments in the history of making art. I am not denying that art creation may, indeed, aid in self reflection and discovery, but I do not think that this should be its primary end. The First Artist alone may create solely for his own reflection, pleasure, and glory. And, yet, God himself, too, creates to share, as if sharing were part and parcel of the act of creation, first within the intimate, infinite society of the Trinity, and then with the creation itself, with all of creation, inanimate and animate, and most especially with humans who bear his image. Indeed, some theologians now posit that something akin to such sharing of fellowship and society may itself be that image, the watermark that is layered into each of our souls.
The phrase “community art project,” though does have some special resonance, however, an enticing appeal, particularly as our communities of art appreciation—our interpretive communities, if you will—become more and more balkanized, smaller and smaller subsets trending again toward that narcissistic community of one. It is a difficult task to attempt reach within the chaos of our disparate cultural idiosyncrasies to pluck universal chords, chords whose existence even many, if not most, deny. And, so, it was with some delight that I sat in my car in the drizzle of a dreary Thursday afternoon, in one of those iconic “driveway moments,” and heard of an art project that consisted of several installations dotted around a neighborhood. Four of the five pieces were located outside, and the opening was to go on rain or shine. I was especially interested because I had seen two of the artists constructing one of the installations several weeks earlier and was curious to see how it turned out.
Now as idealistic as the first few paragraphs have been, my immediate thoughts upon considering attending this project were much less so. In fact, some of them were even rather mercenary. I thought to myself, “What a great opportunity to get some great shots for my blog or even for an article,” and that perhaps, since it was raining, I would be one of the few photographers there. Then my thoughts jumped from the mercenary to the opportunistic, as I briefly considered another one of the purposes to which we sometimes press the services of art—as an occasion to connect with a date, which, admittedly, when it works, can be a powerful connection point indeed. Not having the requisite desire, decision and drive for such an endeavor at the time, however, I was soon back in my car with my trusty camera, heading off to a community art exhibit alone.
Now, it must be noted, that Grand Center, the several-block area in which the Pulitzer Foundation for the Arts, the sponsoring organization of the exhibits comprising The Light Project, is hardly a representative cross-section of the city which was named the most dangerous in America only a few years ago. Yet, in the miracle that is gentrification, it is located only a few blocks away from some of the very neighborhoods which helped earn that moniker. Perhaps, that ironic proximity aptly serves to highlight the amazing potential of art both to be able to crack into and, yes, break out of some very dark places. Indeed, The Light Project, might be and excellent symbol of the latter, as surely as the symbolism of light vs. darkness is a prime candidate to be one of those elusive universal themes.
In the dreariness of the rainy, pre-sunset evening, though, there was very little of the glowing power of light on display, save for the muted wonder of the sun itself behind the clouds. And, so, I began to wander, to grasp the lay of the land. And as I wandered, I also began to grasp some of the borders and boundaries of art in community.
Going first to Sebastian Hungerer and Rainer Kehres’ Chorus, I found it only hinted at the glory that it would be when the darkness would come. Running into Rainer, I listened with a group about how he and Sebastian used lamp shades as their medium as other artists used paint or clay. When someone suggested, that the effect of the lamps comprising the roof of the church suggested Chinese lanterns, he said that Sebastian likened the effect more to that which is created by stained glass, except in this instance the light comes from within and not without. This deference to his artistic partner was further displayed when Rainer insisted that I not take his picture alone without Sebastian present as they were equal partners in the endeavor.
And, so, instead, I wandered over to get the scoop on Spencer Finch’s Sunset (St. Louis, July 31, 2008). As I got my soft serve ice cream, I softly asked whether I might take a picture of the exhibit. The young woman with the rainbow hat who was running the solar-powered ice cream machine did not really know but said she did not mind, as she handed me my cone in a shade of color which was of the colors of the sunset on July 31st, 2008 and then asked me if I wanted sprinkles.
Now, surely, this was truly an art project for a community. With its making powered by the ubiquitous sun, consisting of the colors of the same, the ice cream would be offered on select afternoons to whomever walked by the outside of Contemporary Art Museum St. Louis, which housed the solar panels on its roof. Indeed, it was very possible that the distinctions between neighborhoods might just get a little blurred as the call of free ice cream rang out.
Moving on to the next venue, my experience was exactly reversed, as, upon asking, I was told that as a matter of regular policy to project the image rights of the artists, photography was not allowed in the Pulitzer Arts Foundation. And even though the visuals created by Dan Flavin’s use of fluorescent lighting in his exhibit Constructed Light which were set within the simplicity of Tadao Ando’s minimalistic design of the Pulitzer cried out to be photographed in almost every detail, the exercise of submitting to the rules and not doing so brought its own rewards, like the rewards I get when I sometimes leave my camera in the bag and simply enjoy the sunset, the leaf, the fellowship without fretting over the shots I might be missing. In this instance, I took in the glow of florescent lights shining in the reflecting pool, the ripples created in the same pool by a wild breeze, the slight differentiations of color in the various lights, all without worrying whether I had gotten the shot. I soaked in simplicity. I soaked in the meaning of the place.
Another reason taking pictures of another artist’s work is problematic, though, is because of the question of whether the pictures produced are in any way art themselves or simple pilfering. It is for this reason that if I ever have a studio, I will very likely call it Art Thief Photography, not because I cherish the image of stealthy art thieves, but because in one sense photography, like all art, though perhaps to a greater degree, is theft, though perhaps “borrowing” or J.R.R. Tolkien’s term “sub-creation” might be a better choice of words.
I do believe that photos of art works, though, do have potential be art themselves, but there should be some value addition that is created by a choice of the photographer, say the angle he chooses or what he chooses to put in the foreground or the background. These acts can serve to complement the themes of the piece or subvert them, but, regardless, a new piece or layer of art has been created. My juxtaposition of two images of Jason Peter’s amazing untitled work made out of five-gallon buckets screwed together and illuminated taken at different times, with the intentional inclusion of the St. Louis Sun building in the background (enlarged in inserts), might constitute a piece of art, in and of itself, because of my very specific choices to augment the meaning of the art work itself by including additional details from the environment.
An even more layered example of art being created from art is my picture below of Ann Lislegaard’s installation Crystal World (After J.S. Ballard). The picture is not remarkable in its technical merit. However, because it is a cropped photo in which I zoomed in because I liked a specific portion of the entire narrative which was being projected on the wall of the Contemporary Art Museum along with abstract imagery, I am adding to or deriving meaning from the presentation which the artist may not have intended.
Moreover, as Lislegaard explained in an interview, her installation is based on a science fiction novel written by J.S. Ballard and employs video images of a house in Brazil designed by architect Oscar Niemeyer. So, in this instance, layer is already mashed upon layer upon layer, and the entire effect is communal, after a fashion.
Returning once again to where I began on that dreary evening, Sebastian Hungerer and Rainer Kehres’ Chorus was perhaps the most communal piece in the exhibit. Not only did the pair from Germany renew a church building in St. Louis which had lost its roof in a fire over seven years ago, but they involved the community in the project by calling for lamps from community members themselves to complete the project. The stories of many of the contributors and their lamps are documented on a blog. And it was this exhibit, which seemed to elicit the most wonder, which shone most luminously into the city night.
your comments